The Archy McNally Series, Volume 1

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I have met Roderick Gillsworth. He attended a few of our sessions with his wife. His late wife, I should say. I found him a very intelligent, creative man. A poet, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “He was kind enough to give me autographed volumes of his poems. Have you read his work, Mr. McNally?”

  “Some,” I said cautiously.

  “What is your opinion of his poetry?”

  “Ah,” I said. Then: “Very cerebral.”

  “It is that,” she said, her deep voice resonating. “But I believe he is more than an intellectual. In his poems I sense a wild, primitive spirit struggling to be free.”

  “You may be right,” I said diplomatically, thinking I had never heard such twaddle. Roderick Gillsworth a wild, primitive spirit? Sure. And I am Vlad the Impaler.

  She rose to her feet, a boneless uncoiling. “I’ll try to arrange your séance for later this week, Mr. McNally. I’ll give you at least a day’s notice. Will that be sufficient?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I may be speaking to your daughter-in-law before that if she is able to receive additional information about Peaches.”

  “Peaches?”

  “The missing cat.”

  Unexpectedly she smiled, a mischievous smile that made her seem younger. And more attractive, I might add.

  I hesitate to use the adjective “seductive” to describe any woman, but I can think of none more fitting for Irma Gloriana. I don’t wish to imply her manner was deliberately designed to entice, but I could not believe she was totally unconscious of her physical allure. But perhaps she was. In any event, she projected a strong and smouldering sexuality impossible to ignore.

  “Peaches,” she repeated. “A charming name. Is the cat charming?”

  “The cat is a horror,” I said, and this time she laughed aloud, a booming laugh. “But my friend loves her,” I added.

  “Love,” she said, suddenly serious. “Such an inexplicable emotion, is it not, Mr. McNally?”

  “It is indeed,” I said, and her final handclasp was soft and warm, quite different from the hard, cool handshake with which she had greeted me.

  I drove back to the office trying to sort out my impressions of Mrs. Irma Gloriana. Al Rogoff had initially dubbed her a “tough broad,” and I could understand his reaction. But I thought her more than that: a very deep lady whose contradictions I could not immediately ken. I had a sense that she was playing a role, but what the script might be I had no idea.

  The first thing I did on my return to the McNally Building was to phone Sgt. Rogoff. He wasn’t in, so I left my name and number, requesting he call me as soon as possible.

  I then clattered down the back stairs to our real estate department on the second floor. This section of our legal supermarket advises clients on the purchase and sale of commercial properties and raw land. It also assists on negotiations for private homes, helps arrange mortgages, and represents clients at closings.

  The chief of the department was Mrs. Evelyn Sharif, a jovial lady married to a Lebanese who sold Oriental rugs on Worth Avenue. But Evelyn was absent on maternity leave (twins expected!), so I spoke to her assistant, Timothy Hogan, an Irishman who wore Italian suits, English shirts, French cravats, and Spanish shoes. The man was a walking United Nations.

  I explained to Tim what I needed: all the skinny he could dig up on the Glorianas’ Clematis Street office and their condo near Currie Park. That would include rent, length of lease, maintenance, purchase price of the apartment if they indeed owned it rather than renting, and the references they had furnished.

  “Are you sure you don’t want the name of their dentist?” Hogan asked.

  “I know it’s a lot of work, Tim,” I said, “but see what you can do, will you?”

  “What’s in it for me?” he asked.

  “I won’t tell the old man you’re peddling Irish Sweepstakes tickets on company time.”

  “That’s called extortion,” he said.

  “It is?” I said. “I could have sworn it was blackmail. Whatever, do your best, Tim.”

  Back in my private closet, I got busy on the phone calling a number of contacts at banks, brokerage houses, and credit rating agencies. Most of the people I buzzed were fellow members of the Pelican Club, and the only price I had to pay for the financial lowdown I sought on the Glorianas was the promise of a dinner at the Pelican.

  It was late in the afternoon before I finished my calls, and a subdued growl from the brisket reminded me that other than breakfast the only nourishment I had had all day was a glass of iced tea and a cigarette. I was heading out the door for a pit stop at the nearest watering hole when a jangling phone brought me back to my desk. It was Sgt. Rogoff.

  “I’m phoning from the airport,” he said. “I just checked with the station and they told me you called.”

  “What are you doing at the airport?” I asked. “Leaving for Pago Pago?”

  “Don’t I wish,” he said. “Actually I wanted to make sure Roderick Gillsworth made his flight. He’s taking the casket up north.”

  “And he did?”

  “Yeah, he’s gone. I’m a little antsy about letting him go, but he swears he’ll be back in a couple of days. He better be or I’ll look like a first-class schmuck for letting him go.”

  “Al, don’t tell me you still suspect him?”

  “No, but he’s a material witness, isn’t he?”

  “What kind of condition was he in?”

  “It’s my guess he was nursing a hangover.”

  “Shrewd guess,” I said. “When I left him last night he was sopping up the sauce like Prohibition was just around the corner. Listen, Al, I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “That’s what we’re doing.”

  I sighed. “You want me to be precise? Very well, I shall be precise. It is extremely urgent that I meet personally with you, Sergeant Rogoff, since there are certain letters I wish to show you that may prove to be of some importance in your current homicide investigation. There, how’s that?”

  “What letters?” he demanded.

  “Al,” I said, “you’re going to kill me.”

  “Cheerfully,” he said.

  Chapter 9

  AL TOLD ME HE wanted to drive back to the Gillsworth home to make certain the poet had locked up when he left. I said I’d meet him in an hour.

  “Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be there awhile.”

  I thought that an odd thing to say but made no comment. I grabbed the envelope with the Willigan letters and rode the elevator down to our underground garage. I waved to the security guard and mounted the Miata for the canter home.

  No one was about in the McNally castle so I hustled into the kitchen and slapped together a fat sandwich of salami on sour rye, slathered with a mustard hairy enough to bring tears to your baby blues. I cooled the fire with a chilled can of Buckler non-alcoholic beer, then ran upstairs to get Gillsworth’s house keys in case I arrived before Rogoff.

  But when I got there, a police car was parked in the driveway and the front door of the house was open. I walked in and called, “Al?”

  “In here,” he yelled, and I found him sprawled in a flowered armchair in the sitting room where Lydia had been murdered. He hadn’t taken off his cap, and he was smoking one of his big cigars.

  “Make yourself at home,” I said.

  “I already have,” he said. “Let’s see those cockamamy letters you were talking about.”

  I tossed him the envelope. “Photocopy of the first received by Harry Willigan. The second is the original. Handle it with care; it might have prints.”

  He read both letters slowly while I lounged on a wicker couch and lighted an English Oval. Then he looked up at me.

  “Same paper,” he said. “Looks like the same ink, same typeface, same even right-hand margins.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “The reason I haven’t shown them to you before is that the client forbade it. You know Willigan?”

  “
I know him,” he said grimly. “A peerless horse’s ass.”

  “I concur,” I said. “And if he ever finds out I’ve told you about the catnapping, he’ll be an ex-client and probably sue McNally and Son for malpractice. Al, will you please keep a lid on this? My father knows I’m showing you the letters; it was his decision. All we ask in return is your discretion.”

  “Sure,” he said, “I’m good at that. What have you done so far about finding the damned cat?”

  “Not a great deal,” I said. “One thing I did do—and this will probably give you a laugh: I went to Hertha Gloriana, the psychic, and asked her help in locating Peaches.”

  But he didn’t laugh. “Not so dumb,” he said. “Cops hate to admit it, but psychics and mediums are consulted more often than you think. Mostly in missing person cases. What did she say?”

  I repeated Hertha’s description of the room where she envisioned Peaches was being held prisoner. “She couldn’t give me a definite location but said she’ll keep trying. Do you think these ransom notes have anything to do with the Gillsworth homicide?”

  “Definitely,” he said. “Too many similarities in the letters to call it coincidence. I’ll get these off to the FBI and ask for a comparison. I’m betting they were all printed on the same machine.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “Nothing, until we get the FBI report. If Willigan gets instructions on delivering the fifty thousand, let me know and we’ll try to set up a snare. I wonder if there’s anything to drink in this place.”

  “Let me take a look,” I said. “I’m a neighbor; Gillsworth won’t mind if I chisel a drink or two.”

  I went into the kitchen and found my bottle of Sterling vodka in the freezer. It was still a third full. I brought that and two glasses into the sitting room, then made another trip to bring out a bowl of ice cubes and a pitcher of water.

  “Help yourself,” I said to Rogoff. “It’s McNally booze; I loaned it to Gillsworth last night when he ran dry.”

  We built drinks for ourselves and settled back. It was really a very attractive, comfortable room—if you didn’t look at the bloodstains that had not yet been scrubbed away or painted over.

  “That cane that killed her,” the sergeant, said. “You told me Mrs. Gillsworth showed it to you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you touch it?”

  “No, she held it while she was telling me about it.”

  “The shank has a lot of prints,” Al said. “Hers, Gillsworth’s, some other.”

  “Probably the antique dealer who sold it to her.”

  “Probably, and any other customers who picked it up in his shop. But it also has some interesting partials. Our print expert says they were made by someone wearing latex gloves.”

  “The killer?”

  “Seems likely, doesn’t it? The latex prints were over the old ones, so I’ve got to figure they were the last to be made.”

  “Where does that leave you?”

  “Out in left field—unless you spot a guy in the Pelican Club wearing latex gloves.”

  “Surgeons use them.”

  “And house painters, window washers, people who scrub floors, dentists, and your friendly neighborhood proctologist. How are you doing with the Glorianas?”

  “They’re setting up a private séance for me this week. Irma is handling it.”

  “So you met that bimbo. Did she come on to you?”

  “I don’t think she’s a bimbo, Al, and she didn’t come on to me.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “But didn’t you get the feeling that if you hit on her she wouldn’t be insulted?”

  “Maybe,” I said warily. “But I think she’s a very complex woman.”

  “You and your complexities,” he said disgustedly. “You can’t call a spade a spade. To you it’s a sharp-edged implement used for digging that can be inserted into the ground with the aid of foot pressure. To me Irma Gloriana is a hard case with a bottom-line mentality.”

  I let it go. Al thinks like a policeman. I think like an aged preppy.

  “I know you’ve checked the Glorianas through records,” I said. “Anything?”

  “No outstanding warrants,” he reported. “I’ve got a lot of queries out and I’m waiting to hear. Something may turn up—but don’t hold your breath.”

  I told him about the inquiries I had made to determine the Glorianas’ financial status.

  “Good going,” he said. “I’m betting they’re on their uppers—but that’s just a guess. Elegant vodka, Archy.”

  “It’s all yours,” I said, finishing my drink and rising. “I’ve got to get home for the family cocktail hour or mommy and daddy will send out the bloodhounds. Something you should be aware of, Al: You’re not Roderick Gillsworth’s favorite police officer.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. And you think I lose sleep over it?”

  “He asked if he could phone me from up north and get a report on the investigation. He thinks you’re holding out on him.”

  “I am,” Rogoff said with a hard smile. “Do me a favor, will you? If he calls you, tell him I’ve been acting very mysteriously and you think I’ve got a hot lead I’m not talking about.”

  “Do you? Have a hot lead?”

  “No.”

  “Then why should I tell him that?”

  “Just to stir him up, keep him off balance.”

  “Is your middle name Machiavelli or Borgia?”

  “It happens to be Irving, but don’t tell anyone.”

  I laughed and started out, then paused. “You’re staying?” I asked him.

  “For a while. I thought I’d look around the house.”

  “What for?”

  “One never knows, do one?”

  “Hey,” I protested, “that’s my line.”

  “So it is,” Al said, “and you’re welcome to it.”

  He was pouring himself another shot of Sterling when I left.

  I started the Miata and drove up Via Del Lago toward the beach. As I did, a car turned off Ocean Boulevard and came toward me. I recognized that clunker, an ancient Chevy that needed an IV. And as it passed I recognized the driver from her carroty hair. It was Marita, the Gillsworths’ Haitian housekeeper who, according to Roderick, had been given two weeks off. I pulled to the curb, stopped, and watched in my side mirror.

  Marita parked next to the police car, not at all daunted, got out, and went into the house. She was a tubby little woman who walked with a rolling gait. And there was no mistaking that dyed hair.

  I started up again and drove homeward. I never doubted for a moment that she had been summoned by Sgt. Rogoff. Their meeting was prearranged, but for what purpose I couldn’t even guess. Obviously Al wasn’t telling me everything about his investigation. But then I wasn’t telling him everything about mine: e.g., the relationship between Laverne Willigan and the Glorianas.

  There was something else I hadn’t told him, something I hadn’t really told myself, for it wasn’t a fact or even an idea; it was just a vague notion. And I have no intention of telling you what it was at this juncture. You’d only laugh.

  The family cocktail hour and dinner went off with no untoward incidents that evening. After coffee, mother went to her television in the second-floor sitting room, father retired to Dickens in his study, and I trotted upstairs and got to work on my journal.

  I was interrupted that night by two phone calls. The first was from Connie Garcia.

  “You swine,” she started. “Why haven’t you called?”

  “Busy, busy, busy,” I said. “I do have a job, you know, and I work hard at it. I’m not just another pretty face.”

  She giggled. “I’ll testify to that. Have you been seeing Meg Trumble lately?”

  “Haven’t seen her in days,” I said, feeling virtuous because I could be honest. “She may have gone back up north.”

  “I hope she stays there,” Connie said. “Listen, I have a family thing for tomorrow night—a bridal
shower for one of my cousins—but I’m available for lunch. Make me an offer.”

  “Connie, would you care to have lunch with me tomorrow?”

  “What a splendid idea! I’d love to. Pick me up around noon—okay?”

  “You betcha. I have a new hat to show you—a puce beret.”

  “Oh God,” she said.

  I went back to my journal, scribbling along at a lively clip until I started on an account of my meeting with Irma Gloriana. Then I paused to lean back and stare at the stained ceiling, trying to bring her into sharper focus.

  I had thought Frank Gloriana functioned as Hertha’s business manager. But Irma’s role in setting up the séance and her authoritative manner led me to believe that perhaps she was the CEO of the Gloriana ménage.

  If the Glorianas were engaged in hanky-panky, as I was beginning to think they were, then Irma was the Ma Barker of the gang, a very robust and attractive chieftain. That would make son Frank her foppish henchman. But what part was Hertha playing? I could not believe that sweet, limpid innocent could be guilty of any wrongdoing. Her lips were too soft and warm for a criminal. (I know that is a ridiculous non sequitur; you don’t have to tell me.)

  My musings were interrupted by the second phone call, this one from Roderick Gillsworth in Rhode Island.

  “How are you getting along, Rod?” I asked.

  “As well as can be expected,” he said. “Isn’t that what doctors say when the patient is in extremis? The funeral is scheduled for tomorrow after a church service at noon. Then I am expected to attend a buffet dinner at the home of an elderly aunt. I fear she may serve dandelion wine or chamomile tea so I shall be well fortified beforehand, I assure you. I’ll get through it somehow.”

  “Of course you will. When are you returning?”

  “I have a flight on Wednesday morning. Tell me, Archy, is there anything new on the investigation?”

  I hesitated, long enough for him to say, “Well?”

  “Nothing definite, no,” I said. “But I spoke to Sergeant Rogoff today and he was rather mystifying. He seemed quite pleased with himself, as if he had uncovered something important. But when I asked questions, all he’d do was wink.”